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Of pigeons, like the snow, were on the roof Nestled together; and a plaining sound Came from a fountain murmuring through the wood, Less like the voice of sorrow than of love: Tall trees were gathered round—the dark-green beech; The sycamore, with scarlet colours on, The herald of the autumn; dwarf rose-trees, Covered with their last wealth; the poplar tall, A silver spire; olives with their pale leaves; And some most graceful shrubs, amid whose boughs Were golden oranges; and hollow oaks, Where the bees built their honey palaces. It was a silent and a lovely place, Where Peace might rest her white wings. But one came From out the cottage,—not as one who comes To gaze upon the beauty of the sky